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Cancer tastes like shit.
“You give me a feral dog vibe.”
God, he’s mean. Why do I like it?
“You’re going to ruin me, too. But unfortunately for you, that’s where I feel most at home.”
“If I’m a feral dog, you’re an owl.”
He knows. He’s known this whole time. And I walked right into his trap like an idiot.
If I could physically rip out every word that defines him as an asshole from the dictionary and shove it down his throat, I would.
“There’s only one bed?”
Shut up, you crinkly dinosaur.
I blink. “Sounds like you’re talking about little boys. A man wouldn’t touch a woman without their consent,” I volley back. “Plus, a bathing suit isn’t an invitation to be violated.”
“You’re right,” he concedes, pausing a beat before saying, “and I’d do it again. I’m the only one allowed to touch you, bella ladra, and I’m the only one who will cause you pain. Capito?”
But last time I checked, I've been ruining lives far longer than him.
A divot appears in his right cheek, a slightly crooked curl to his lips.
“Because you worship me now.”
“What happened to you does not define you.
“No more running, baby. I want him to come looking for you just so I can have the privilege of ending his life for touching what’s mine.”
If I’m the devil, she’s fucking Lilith.
“Ed è esattamente per questo che voglio odiarti. Prima di incontrare te ero un sonnambulo. Cazzo, non ero pronto a svegliarmi.”
